


Misha Collins Isn't Real

by poD7et



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crack, Don't Read This, Gen, i'm not even sure how to tag this, i'm so sorry/not sorry for this, misha collins isn't real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poD7et/pseuds/poD7et
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's my own personal joke that Misha Collins isn't real. That he's just a mass delusion born of the tumblr group think. But what if . . . just maybe . . . he wasn't real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misha Collins Isn't Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidbinbadger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidbinbadger/gifts).



> I was going to write this for [SPN Coldest Hits](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/SPNColdestHits/works), but then I got drunk and [shipper!sam-I-am](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6556918) happened instead. Stuff like that happens to me all the time.
> 
> I finally had some time and was bored enough and also [rabidbinbadger](http://rabidbinbadger.tumblr.com/) promised to make me terrible fanart is I did this.
> 
> BTW, this was written and never reread. Whatever happened is what you're stuck with.

“Wha-- Wh-who are you?”

There was no response from the hooded figure before him. Misha tried to move, but found he was restrained. He started to silently panic. He thought about the last thing he remembered.

_I was at home. I put the kids to bed. The little marauders were still up and apparently West led Maison on an expedition to the kitchen pantry for a snack. So we all had midnight snacks and then Vicki put them to bed. They tend to stay in bed when Mom does the tucking in. I was lying in bed listening to Vicki spin some tale about faeries and then . . ._

That’s where things started to get dark. Like literally dark. Everything turned back and then next thing he knew, he was here.

“Stay with me, Misha.” growled his captor. Or at least, Misha decided that it had to be his captor. Like, why else would a hooded stranger knock him unconscious and then bind him in a dark room?

“How did you know my name?” Misha asked, although he didn’t expect a reply. Either way, he had several guesses as to why. Like the fact that he was kidnapped from his own damn house. That he had a pretty big following, that still seemed unreal to him. And he has received some pretty creepy messages, both borne of love and hate over the years.

Suddenly, everything went dark again.

“Sweet dreams,” whispered his captor.

* * *

“Shhh! Shh shh shh!”

_Huh?_

“. . . three . . . two . . . one . . .”

“ATTACK!” came a chorus of voices.

The bed dipped on all sides as he was assaulted.

Shrill laughter filled the air.

“Oh no! Not the tickle squad! No one can survive the tickle strike of DOOM!” Misha tried to contain himself, but he felt the laugh building in his belly. He wouldn’t be able to hold it back much longer, but he’d be damned if he just gave in.

“Increase tickling intensity to Mark 7!” Vicki commanded as West went for his dad’s feet, Maison for the sweet spot under his arms and Vicki blowing raspberries oh his belly.

“I SURRENDER! I SURRENDER!” Misha gasped between guffaws.

At last the onslaught ceased, and Misha attempted to compose himself.

“Alright, troops. What would I need to do to arrange a 24-hour cease fire?”

“PANCAKES!” Masion and West shouted slightly out of sync.

Vicki smiled sweetly and when the kids looks away waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Brussel sprout and raw beet pancakes it is!” he joked.

“Nutella!” West whined.

“Banana!” Maison said with her best West impression.

“Interesting requests, but I’ll do anything as long as you promise there will be no more tickles. If I even catch you thinking about it, It’s be Brussel sprouts and beets!” Misha warned. “And now, in reparation for this heinous attack, you shall clean your room and wash up for breakfast!”

West waggled his fingers tauntingly at his father.

Misha raised an authoritative eyebrow, “Beet red pancakes,” he whispered.

And that was all the convincing it took to get the kids out of the room.

“And as for you, young lady,” Misha said in his growliest Castiel voice, “I don’t think that cleaning your room is punishment enough.”

Vicki scrunched up her face and playfully slapped Misha’s cheek.

“You should show me some respect.” he continued, “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Vicki tried to put on her angry and insulted face, but ended up laughing instead.

“What?” Misha said, his face the picture of innocence.

“I can’t . . .” Vicki giggled.

“What did I do?” he said raising both hands in what appeared to be genuine confusion. When the laughter didn’t stop, he started to climb out of the bed.

“Stay.” his wife commanded.

“Huh?” Misha had the strangest sense of deja vu.

“Stay with me, Misha.” she crooned.

Misha sat back down and started to run his fingers through her hair. “You know, I had the strangest dream . . .”

* * *

The next few nights, Misha had similar dreams. They became more vivid. And Misha was lucid for most of them. And they were quite twisted too.

Like the one where his blood was drained and replaced.

Or the one where he could have sworn that the hooded figure was doing some Indiana Jones Kali ma, shakti de crap and digging through his chest cavity.

Or even the one where he was sure that he was plugged into the matrix and that this mysterious man was running diagnostics on his brain.

Misha recounted these events and more to his wife who listened with morbid curiosity.

* * *

The next night was Misha’s last at home. They built a blanket fort in the living room and in true father-of-the-year-award form, he stayed with them until they passed out from sheer exhaustion.

He gently kissed each of his children before carefully extracting himself from the fort. He wouldn’t see them again until he came back. He was leaving early the next morning.

Back in the bed he shared with Vicki, he politely declined anything more strenuous than talking through lidded eyes.

* * *

“Bring it out, Dmitri.”

_What the hell . . . Jensen?_

Misha was sure that he was still at home with Vicki. He tried to roll over, but found that he was strapped firmly to . . . to . . . to . . . whatever the hell it was that he was strapped to.

Just then he saw the hooded figure from his dream wheel in-- was that a gurney?

A second hooded figure walked over, lifted the sheet from the thing that hopefully wasn’t a dead body, and marvelled.

“So this is the Mark 4 model??”

 _This is just a dream. Why is Jensen in my dream? Or rather, why is he in_ this _dream?_

The first figure nodded.

“What should we do with the old one?” not-Jensen asked.

“This one’s not ready yet,” said a voice that sounded all too similar to his own, “We can still get some use out of him.”

_This is ridiculous. No way. He should be waking up soon. Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!_

_ _

* * *

“Wake up, honey.”

Misha sat up straight, breathing hard.

“Hey hey hey! It’s okay,” she said rubbing his back, “Another one of those dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe the change of scenery will help drive away the mara.”

Misha grunted his approval and then checked the time. He really did have to get going. He leaned over and kissed his wife before hopping out of bed in search of clothes.

Vicki got up too and retrieved a neatly packed rucksack.

“You’re the best. What did I do to deserve you?”

“I don’t know,” she teased, “I think I might have bring you back for a newer model.”

That phrase. It struck a chord. Misha let his suspicion flash across his face for half a second before bringing his wife in for a final embrace.

* * *

First day back and everyone was catching up in Jensen’s trailer.

Seemed like everyone had an interesting story to tell about their hiatus antics. So of course, Misha took this as an opportunity to become a storyteller extraordinaire.He recounted the events of his dreams in great detail and acted each role spectacularly. And by the time he was done, you could hear a pin drop.

Misha waited for a response.

Finally, someone mumbled something about an early call time the next morning and everyone excused themselves for the night. But Misha stayed and took a seat next to Jensen on the couch.

“Was it something I said?”

“Naw, man. They’re just tired.” Jensen said, not so slickly sliding an arm around Misha’s shoulders. “You know that.”

“I guess . . .”

“You staying here?”

“Naw, I think I need some time alone.”

“I get that. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

* * *

Misha fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the mattress.

He woke up before his alarm. He thought he saw one of those hooded men, but was too tired to deal with this crap. He had a 4AM call time tomorrow. He closed his eyes and through sheer force of will he went back to sleep.

* * *

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

He slammed a fist on the alarm clock’s snooze button.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

He grabbed the clock and pulled, but instead of ripping the cord from the wall, he ripped the clock from the cord. Misha groaned and rolled out of bed. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Thankfully the early morning scene was the only one Misha was scheduled for that day. He went back to his trailer to settle in properly. The boys (he really shouldn’t call them boys anymore, but it was a habit) were scheduled to shoot late into the night so he decided to spend some time in quiet meditation.

Feeling properly relaxed in a way he hadn’t in days, Misha drifted to sleep. The kind where he wasn’t strapped to a table.

When he woke up he decided to go out for a jog. He told his driver to bring him to the Pacific Sprint Park and that he would call him when he was done.

Misha set off with a pace that would probably wear him out too quickly, but he enjoyed the rush of it. He took the time to really enjoy the scenery. It was a beautiful park. And perhaps he should’ve paid more attention to where he was going because he was off trail. Not the worst thing that could happen. He’d happen upon _a_ trail again at some point and be able to get back.

Then he tripped.

He heard something crunch in a way that couldn’t be healthy. But he didn’t feel any pain. He looked down at his legs and saw that it was bent in a way that even his relatively bendy self shouldn’t bend. _Crap_. Well, he wasn’t in any pain. Not yet. Shock. Maybe he was in shock. He took out his phone and went to dial his driver. But his driver wasn’t going to make it here and he’s probably call an ambulance. Jensen. He’d call Jensen. But he was shooting. But it was okay. It’d be hilarious if his phone was on. He’d have to put $50 in the pot. He was definitely calling Jensen. He hit the speed dial and then blacked out.

* * *

Misha woke up strapped to an operating table. Crap. Hopefully, there wasn’t a big scene. Well, at least he’d have something to talk about at the next convention.He laid there and tried to figure out the details of how to tell this story.

_‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ That’s a classic._

Then it stuck him. It was dark. Weren’t most operating rooms bright? Where was he? He started to panic. He tried to look around, but his head was restrained. He struggled against his restraints, then heard muffled shuffling.

“We’ll have to roll out the next model early.”

 _Who was that?_ Misha stilled and strained to listen.

“But it’s not ready.” said Jensen.

_My dream?_

“We’ll have to work out the kinks tonight then.” said not-Misha.

“Heh . . . kinks.” Jensen laughed.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” not-Misha said.

“Oh, I know you enjoy watching.”

“Shut it.”

“Hey, you’ve even tried a few things I know I’ve only done with fake you.”

“Well, if you don’t like it, I could always stop.”

“You know damn well, I like it.”

_What the . . . What was happening? Wake up, Misha._

“Well, here he is.” said not-Misha, followed by the sound of a sheet being pulled off something.

“Damn.” said Jensen.

“You like?”

“I think he might even be hotter than you.” Jensen joked.

“So that’s how it is?” not-Misha joshed.

“You know you’re the only ‘Misha’ for me.”

“Convince me.”

“C’mere, Dmitri.”

“Shit, that was good.”

“Damn straight.”

“There’s nothing straight about this.” Dmitri said and Misha was positively sure he was smirking.

“How about we take a break from this project.” Jensen suggested.

“But we have to finish it tonight.”

“Just a quick stop by my trailer. We won’t be gone long.”

“. . . You win this round, Jackles.”

_What is going on?_

Misha listened to feet scramble away and a door open and close.

“Hey!” he whispered. “Uhhh . . . me. Erm . . . Misha-me. Mark 4.”

He heard footsteps. And suddenly Misha saw himself step into his line of vision. His not-self recoiled at the sight of Misha strapped to the table.

“Could you um . . . help out a friend?” Misha put on a lopsided smile.

“But you-- You’re . . . You can’t be.” the Mark 4 replied.

“But I am,” Misha replied, “And believe me when I say that I am just as surprised as you, but this is true and we should help each other out. We gotta stay together, right?”

“I . . .” Mark 4 hesitated.

“Listen. Here’s what I know so far, and this is what we’re going to do.”

* * *

“Hey, didn’t you leave the Mark 4 over here?” Jensen asked.

“Of course, I did.” Dmitri answered, “Stop joking around. Where is it?”

The pair looked at each other waiting for the other to admit they were the one responsible for this prank.

“Did you leave it on?” Jensen asked.

“Me? I thought you switched it off, Mr. Let’s-go-back-to-my-trailer.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Let’s just split up. And find the damn thing before it gets too far.”

“Looking for me?” Mark 4 asked.

“Thank God.” Dmitri sighed.

“Or me?”

“Or me?”

“Or maybe you’re looking for me.” Misha taunted.

Dmitri and Jensen looked at Misha and then at each other and then back at Misha.

“Jared, cut it out.” Dmitri whined.

No answer.

“Seriously? It’s not funny anymore, dude.” Jensen added.

“So, Jared’s in on this too?” Misha asked.

“Who else?” Mark 4 pressed.

“Who else?” Misha Mark 1 and 2 chorused.

“Is this really happening?” Jensen asked reaching for Dmitri.

“Mark? Rob? Jared? This isn’t funny . . .” Dmitri said between nervous laughter.

“They’re all in on it.” Misha said to the other models. “We’ve got work to do guys. Let’s go.”

* * *

And the Mishas went on a destructive spree and maimed/killed the entire cast and crew.

* * *

The end.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or is it???

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if you decided to read this. There's nothing else I can do. I apologize to the internet for publishing this.


End file.
